


Before You Speak

by Jominerva



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Insecure Francis, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-23 21:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7481241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jominerva/pseuds/Jominerva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has always told Francis he thinks too much. Francis wonders if he'd still say that if he knew what he was really thinking about. The answer is probably still yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before You Speak

**Author's Note:**

> This is a quick something I wrote for FrUk week this year. It's my first Hetalia fic so apologies if the characterization isn't quite right. Hope you enjoy it anyway!

Ask Francis to describe his best friend and you’ll hear words like “handsome”, “charming”, “passionate”, and “courageous” spoken with a lilting French accent in a tone of voice that bespeaks a great admiration on Francis’ part. However, if you ask Arthur Kirkland the very same question all you’d get are three words: “bloody” “frog” “wanker”. And that’s okay, because Francis knows that those ugly words don’t come from a place of malice, but rather love. At least, he thinks so.

Their relationship is a complicated one, always has been. From the moment they met their interactions have been coloured by teasing and playful jests, though Francis never goes for the low blows like Arthur is prone to do. He could easily comment on how silly Arthur’s accent sounds now that he’s spent so much time in America; he knows that’s a weak point. He could also poke fun at the monstrosities he calls eyebrows, as one of the first things he ever learned about Arthur was how insecure he is about them. But the truth is, Francis loves the way Arthur’s voice sounds, and he actually likes Arthur’s eyebrows. He loves how expressive they are, how fierce they make him look.

Yes, he’s always loved those eyebrows…

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Francis blinks once, twice, and realises he is in fact staring. One of Arthur’s eyebrows is raised, his green eyes questioning. There’s a frown on his lips, but he’s not angry. No, that’s just how his face usually is.

“Ah, nothing, Arthur. I was just thinking.”

“You’re always thinking.”

Francis rolls over onto his back and lets his head dangle over the edge of Arthur’s bed. He smiles at him. Arthur turns back to his desk. Francis watches him scribble something down in a notebook. Formulas, probably. Last he remembered Arthur was working on his Chemistry homework. Music is playing from a small speaker on Arthur’s side table. One of those punk bands he’s so crazy about. Arthur glances at him out of the corner of his eye, then dives fully into his work, leaving Francis to think.

Lately Francis has been thinking a lot more than usual. According to Arthur that shouldn’t be possible. It’s one of the many grievances he voices on a regular basis, how easily and how often Francis gets lost in his own mind. He can’t help it though. He’s a thinker. He likes to take time to process things, to let his mind wander. It keeps it sharp. Gives him something to do when the real world is either too stimulating or not stimulating enough.

Yes, Francis is a thinker, so thinking too much isn’t anything out of the ordinary for him. What is unusual, is the focus of Francis’ musings.

The already reclusive Arthur has grown increasingly withdrawn in the last few weeks. Francis is used to grumpy, short-tempered Arthur. He’s used to moody Arthur, and even the rare clingy Arthur no longer fazes him. But quiet Arthur is something he has no idea how to deal with. He’d tried once, a couple of weeks ago, to find out what was wrong. They’d been in Arthur’s room much like they are now, with France lying across Arthur’s bed, and Arthur sitting upright, back propped against his headboard. Francis was too far away to place a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, so he settled for his knee and looked up into impossibly wide green eyes and asked him what was wrong. Arthur abruptly stood from the bed and made his way to his desk chair, muttering that "nothing's wrong, you frog, leave me alone”.

And Francis did. The awkward tension eventually dissipated and Francis was more than happy to pretend the moment never happened. He’s great at pretending. So he pretends that he hasn’t noticed anything’s wrong with Arthur. He pretends that he doesn’t notice the growing rift between them. He pretends that the thought of possibly losing Arthur doesn’t cut him to his very core. He puts on a smile, takes Arthur’s insults with grace and never fires back. He only laughs, shakes his head, and goes back to doing whatever it was he had been before Arthur’s comment.

Then one day at lunch Gilbert makes the offhand comment that “for best friends, you two don’t seem very chummy.” Oblivious to Francis and Arthur’s obvious discomfort, he continues. “What, did you have a fight or something.”

“No,” Arthur says a bit too forcefully, and Francis turns to look at him. His eyes are hard, his lips pressed in a firm line. He’s staring down at the table, wringing his hands where they lay in his lap. His food is untouched. Francis leaves his own tray on the table and snatches up his bag, dashing out of the cafeteria without a glance back. He finds a bench to sit on and covers his face with his hands, lets out a shaky breath. He leans forward and the wisps of hair that have escaped his ponytail tickle the skin on the back of his hands.

The hallway is quiet. He can hear the faint sounds of chatter and silverware scraping against plates. There’s the occasional slamming of a locker, the squeak of shoes against the linoleum floor.

Francis has many friends, yes. But he’s never had a best friend before Arthur. He’s never known anyone like Arthur. He’s never felt that instant connection with someone that told him “this person is special, keep them around” like he did when he met Arthur. It was nearly six years ago when Arthur moved to the States with his family, and Francis found himself intrigued by the British boy with the bushy eyebrows and bad attitude. Perhaps it was because he himself had been the new kid only two years prior, with a funnier accent and less self-confidence than this boy showed standing at the front of the classroom while the teacher introduced him. Then lunchtime came, and Francis saw him standing at the cafeteria doors looking so _lost_ , and before it fully registered that his body was moving he was out of his seat and making his way over to him. What he thought he was offering Arthur then was merely a seat at his table. What he really gave him that day was a permanent spot in his life. Or so it seemed after years had passed with them only growing closer. Now… Now it seemed like they were going backwards. Francis had always wondered when Arthur would get tired of him. He’s surprised he lasted so long. Francis knows he’s difficult to deal with. Overzealous at times, opinionated, melodramatic, perhaps a bit too touchy-feely for most people’s liking. Honestly, he’s not sure why he has any friends, come to think of it.

“Hey, frog.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, snap out of it.” The hand is shaking him. Gently, he notes, but rough enough to get his attention. Arthur sits on the bench beside him, the hand that isn’t on Francis’ shoulder currently buried in his short, choppy blonde hair. Francis notices the slight blush hidden beneath the dusting of freckles across the bridge of Arthur’s nose.

“Arthur, what…” Francis doesn’t know how to finish his question. There’s so much he doesn’t understand. Why did Arthur come looking for him? Why does it almost feel like there’s a stranger sitting beside him, and not the Arthur he’s come to know and love.

Love.

Francis feels his heart physically skip a beat. He hadn’t thought that was even possible. He’d read romance novels and see that line and immediately roll his eyes at the notion. But sure enough, the sensation is real, and it’s painful, and it’s something he really doesn’t want to deal with right now.

Arthur tightens his grip on Francis’ shoulder. Francis feels the overwhelming urge to run. It takes every ounce of willpower he has to remain on the bench beside Arthur, who’s looking at him with those big green eyes and eyebrows furrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down, warm hand on his shoulder holding him just a bit too tight.

“Seriously Francis. You’re no fun when you get all weird and spacey like this.”

“Sorry… I was just…” Francis swallows hard, turns away from those eyes that make him feel like his stomach has been replaced by a giant hole.

“Hey.” Francis has never heard Arthur’s voice so soft before. Francis can feel his hands shaking. Arthur has moved closer to him, crowding him against the arm of the bench. Francis can smell the cheap cologne he stole from his dad’s room a month ago. Initially Francis hadn’t been overly fond of it, but Arthur liked it, and he liked Arthur, so he learned to deal with. Now, it’s one of his favourite scents.

Francis forces himself to meet Arthur’s gaze, and there’s that painful feeling again like his heart’s about to give out on him. Arthur’s hand is moving, down from his shoulder to grasp his upper arm. Francis’ skin burns where Arthur touches him. It’s getting to be too much. Arthur gives his arm a slight squeeze, gives him a small smile.

“Still coming to my house today?”

“Of course,” Francis answers, a bit breathlessly. Arthur lets go of him and sits back. Francis now realises the two of them are only taking up half the bench they’re sitting so close. Francis grabs his bag from his feet and stands on thankfully steady legs. “I’ll see you then.”

* * *

Francis counts the number of posters in Arthur’s room: twenty-six. He counts the number of pencils in the cup sitting on Arthur’s desk: twelve. He counts the number of pieces of lint he can see on the carpet in Arthur’s room: too many. He’s wondering just how often Arthur vacuums in here when Arthur returns holding two cans of soda and a bag of chips. Francis takes his can wordlessly and tries to find something else to count. He needs to keep his mind occupied with thoughts of anything other than Arthur, his relationship with him, his own feelings that he refuses to come to terms with.

He’s seen it before in movies. Heard about it from his friends, read about it in books. There were times he thought he’d experienced it himself, but now he knows he was wrong every time. The way he feels about Arthur is unlike anything he’d ever known before. Francis can’t figure out how it’s taken him so long to realise. Arthur is his best friend, he loves him like a friend. But there’s something else there. Something else causing the sweaty palms and the pains in his chest. Something else has wormed its way inside Francis’ heart and made a home.

It’s been nearly a week since the revelation. Since the day Francis stormed out of the cafeteria and Arthur followed him out into the hallway. Since they stopped for coffee on the way to Arthur’s house and Francis sat across from him at that tiny table, watched the way the sunlight streaming through the window made Arthur’s hair practically glow, and realised he was helplessly in love with him.

Rather than feel relieved to understand just why it is he feels so drawn to Arthur, why he can’t imagine his life without Arthur in it, why the thought of them ever parting wounded him in ways he never thought possible, Francis is terrified. Arthur is still distant, their friendship still strained, and Francis doesn’t know what to do to fix it. He tried teasing Arthur more, but that only made him angry. He tried being extra friendly, but that only seemed to scare Arthur off. Now he’s trying the distant route, but so far all it’s gotten him is even more pain and no profit. In fact, Francis being distant only makes Arthur even more so. But he doesn’t know what else to do. So he sits at the foot of Arthur’s bed and they watch movies in silence. They work on homework together in silence. Francis loses himself to his thoughts more than he’d care to admit.

Arthur turns off the television and spins in his desk chair to face Francis.

“Okay, I can’t take this anymore.”

Francis stares blankly at him. Arthur’s outburst tore him away from his own thoughts, and it takes a moment for his mind to clear before he can focus on the new conversation. “What?”

“Have I done something?”

“Arthur, I don’t understand.”

Arthur crosses his arms and kicks his foot. “We never talk anymore. You’re always so quiet. I’ve been trying to ignore it, figuring you’re just going through something and you’ll be okay eventually but … but it’s been too long.” His face is red now. “I … I miss you. I miss my best friend.” He throws his hands in the air and spins back around to face the wall. “There, I said it. I said it.”

Francis sits dumbfounded, mouth open in a comical fashion. His eyes are fixed on the back of Arthur’s head and he knows he should say something but he’s just at a loss for words.

“Arthur?” When he doesn’t answer Francis stands from the bed and walks to where Arthur is sitting. He places a hand on the desk and leans, unable to fully support himself on such shaky legs. “Arthur, what do you mean? I’m right here.”

“Yes, you’re _here_. But you’re not here. Not really.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Well, neither are you! With you and your mood swings and your ignoring me. I mean, what’s that all about? If you don’t want to spend time with me just say so. Don’t come over to my house just to pretend I don’t exist.”

Francis winces at Arthur’s harsh tone. Not only does he sound angry but he sounds … hurt. He stares back at him, the gears in his mind slowly beginning to turn the longer he stares into those green eyes he loves so much. Unable to handle the way Arthur’s looking at him, so intense and so… something, Francis turns and makes his way back to sit on his bed.

“I … may have been a bit distant lately, but it’s nothing. I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking.”

“You’re _always_ thinking!” Arthur throws his hands up in the air and stands from his chair. Francis hasn’t seen anyone stand up so angrily before. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t the least bit frightened. Arthur begins pacing, one hand on his hip, the other in his hair. “You think too much, you know? Always thinking, always lost in that funny little head of yours. What the hell do you even think about?”

“You.”

The admission obviously startles Arthur, who immediately freezes. Slowly, he turns to face Francis, who becomes very interested in Arthur’s bedspread. He feels the mattress dip beside him, can sense Arthur’s gaze on him.

“Me?”

“That is what I said, is it not?” Francis’ accent is thicker than he means it to be, but that happens when he gets stressed or scared, and right now he is both. Arthur sighs, folds his hands in his lap. Their thighs are pressed together, their shoulders too. Francis fights the urge to rest his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Well, can you tell me what you’re thinking about me?” Francis bites his lip, and Arthur takes one of his hands in both of his. “Please, Francis. I … I don’t know what it is that I’ve done but I can fix it.” Arthur sounds like he’s in physical pain saying the words, and Francis has no idea how to process them. Arthur thinks he’s done something? Does he think that Francis is mad at him? Given, Francis hasn’t necessarily been that friendly to him, but only because he believed Arthur to be indifferent or worse, upset with him. He’d been simultaneously preparing for the end of their friendship while doing whatever he can to prevent it. And it’s because of his actions that the rift exists between them? That means it’s up to him to save this. He can do that. He can do this. Arthur’s his best friend, at least for the time being. How hard can it be to talk to him about this?

“Well, for the most part…” Francis swallows around the newly-formed lump in his throat. Apparently it’s very hard to tell your best friend that you’ve been avoiding speaking to him because you’ve been too distracted with the revelation that you’re in love with him coupled by the fact that you think he doesn’t want to be friends with you anymore only that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. Francis takes a deep breath and starts again.

“You were distant first.” It comes out sounding like an accusation, which, initially, Francis didn’t mean it to be. But it’s out in the open now, and there’s nothing he can do about it. So he sits and waits for Arthur to respond. He doesn’t. Francis struggles to find the words to continue. “I tried asking what was wrong, but you wouldn’t tell me. So I figured I was the problem. I convinced myself you no longer wanted to be my friend, and I guess to protect myself I started to push you away as well.”

The air between them is thick with tension and words that need to be said. Thankfully, Arthur picks now to speak up.

“How ever did you come to that conclusion? Francis, you’re my best friend.” Another pang in his chest at hearing Arthur say those words, but Francis doesn’t mind it so much. He’s used to the pain by now. Arthur is still holding his hand, has turned to look at him. “Sure, you’re weird and frustrating to deal with at times, but you’re also so warm, so … so dynamic. Your enthusiasm is unmatched, and …” He groans. “You know, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking of my own, actually. Most of it about you.” Francis remains silent, afraid that even the softest whisper would spook Arthur and ruin this moment between them. Arthur grips his hand tighter. “Perhaps it made me grow distant, but I never meant to make you think …I'm not mad at you." He lets out a soft chuckle, Francis notes how the corners of his eyes crinkle when he looks at him. "I thought you were angry with me. I didn’t know what to do about it, so I let you be, hoping that whatever it was would soon pass. But, I can’t stand the thought of you being upset with me. I don’t want to ever cause you pain. And yet that’s all I was doing by refusing to speak up.” Francis is staring at him now, unable to look away from Arthur’s face. He counts the freckles on his face, takes a moment to admire Arthur’s fine features (aside from those eyebrows) and finds his eyes drawn to his lips. They’re moving. Arthur’s still talking.

“It’s like all I can think about is you these days. It’s so weird. I don’t understand why.”

“I think I do.”

Before he has the time to talk himself out of it, Francis leans forward and presses his lips against Arthur’s. There’s a squeak of surprise from Arthur before Francis feels him let go of his hand and grab a fistful of his hair, pulling him closer. His lips are chapped, and Francis’ back starts to hurt from sitting at an odd angle when he pushes further, but it’s the best kiss he’s ever had.

It takes a minute for Francis to realise he’s kissing Arthur and he actually jumps back a bit when he does. Arthur’s hand is still in his hair, his eyes still closed, mouth open and waiting. Francis moves further back. Arthur slowly opens his eyes. They look worried, scared.

“Um…”

Arthur’s staring at him, one eyebrow raised. He looks expectant. He looks impatient. Is he waiting for Francis to kiss him again, or does he want some sort of explanation? Oh god, is he waiting for some kind of declaration? Yes, Francis loves him but is he ready to tell him that? What if Arthur doesn’t feel the same? Obviously he likes him in that way, but does he love him? Would it ruin the moment if Francis said-

“Francis…”

Francis simply stares back at him. He feels frozen, unable to move a single muscle. His mind is unable to keep up with everything that’s happening. It’s all moving so _fast_ and yet it feels like time stands still with the way Arthur’s looking at him. “I think –”

“You think too much,” Arthur says, leaning back into kiss him again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me on tumblr?](http://foliealune.tumblr.com)


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